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User blog:Abc8920/Into the Dark
Torlo lay in a state of numbness, nothing but an agonizing solipsistic consciousness in a world of absolute darkness. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were sealed against his face. He tried to smell his surroundings, finding out he wasn’t even breathing. Slowly his senses started up, making Torlo pray that they had never done so. The first thing his dulled brain recognized was the sting of rough ground below what he believed to be his body. The Le-Matoran finally found the strength to raise his eyelids, which stared at a burning afternoon sky. The dying light of the setting Twin Suns gave the clouds varying tonalities of red and dark orange, a dichotomic sky that inspired both aggression and calmness. Torlo took a deep breath, hoping to clear his mind and make sense of his state of being, instead finding his mouth full of dust. He coughed hard, hurting his diaphragm, trying to resist the smell of incomplete octane combustion that was invading his lungs. Finally his hearing returned, and Torlo heard the sound of true entropy, a chaotic mess of engine roars, frantic footsteps and senseless chattering. Raising the upper half of his body, he finally realized where he was. He had never believed in Hell. He had spent many years of his life fighting against what he believed to be the lies of religion. Torlo just couldn’t buy there was enough room in any singular space for all the people Mata Nui considered as profligates. He had never imagined that he would wind up there when he finally met his end, and even less that it would take the form of such a familiar place. He was in Metru Nui. There was no mistake in that. He recognized the endless rivers of asphalt that meandered in a radial formation around the Coliseum, the neuralgic center of the city, the grey masses of busy Matoran running around, the utilitarian skyscrapers that littered the landscape, in dusk just black silhouettes against the crimson sky, the smog fading out the horizon. Torlo examined his own body, finding a deep gash in the thorax. The Matoran crossed the road he was laying on, passing next to him and ignoring him like if he didn’t exist. He touched the injury with his right hand, blackened by the asphalt dust, and felt no pain. How could have Krennato been right all the time? “She wasn’t.” Torlo quickly turned his head around, trying to find the source of the voice. The illusory world disappearing as he did so, dissipating like a puff of smoke. Now he was in a cold metallic room, poorly lit by the dim light. The only piece of furniture in sight was a table made of the same material as the floor and the walls. He turned around, finding an imposing black and silver titan standing by the only window of the room, blocking most of the sunlight that reached, a Kanohi Rode masking his face, which oozed self-confidence and arrogance. Realization suddenly struck Torlo as he identified the figure with the voice that had contacted him a short time ago. Karabak. “You must be full of questions, my dear guest," creaked the Makuta. "Ask away, for you have been rewarded with the privilege of playing another part in the events to come.” “Well, a good start would be explaining how I came from falling into an abyss to this soulless place.” “I already told you during our encounter in the Green Belt that - depending on your actions - your fate could take two different paths. You did the right thing, Matoran, by throwing yourself into the abyss, avoiding a catastrophe that even I could not have stopped. I saw a spark in you, and your actions confirmed it. I could not have that talent wasted, so I teleported you here.” “And what about the stopover in that crooked version of Metru Nui?” “Twisted version? I showed you the real Metru Nui, Torlo. Metru Nui is not the Golden City that your leaders promised you. It is another piece of fiction, like every other lie you were able to discern. The only reason I saved you is that I saw in you the potential that other Matoran do not have – to think beyond beliefs, to see beyond appearances. Don’t make me regret my decision by talking of promised lands.” Torlo looked Karabak straight in the eyes, struggling to resist against the powerful stare of the Makuta. “And what happens now? I just help you because that’s the right thing to do?” “No. I have an offer for you.” “An offer?” The Makuta hesitated. “You will collaborate with me in the time to come. The situation in this universe reached a critical moment during your showdown against Bohrok X in the Valmai. It will be some time until the next crisis... but I believe the next one will be of a magnitude yet unseen, a conflict that cannot be won easily; it will be the one that will destroy the universe as we know it. When that crisis arises, I want to have an effective and clinical tool to attack the problem at its roots – and burn them. You will be that tool.” “And what do I get for playing along with your sinister plans?” A dark smile appeared on the Makuta’s Rode, making the Le-Matoran uneasy. “The payment will be delivered in three parts.” Karabak raised his clawed fingers and pointed them at the wall behind Torlo, dissipating it. Bright light flooded the room, blinding the Zatth-wearer momentarily. Still, he ended up walking into the light, coming out on the barren landscape of what was probably some forsaken region of the Southern Island Chain. Torlo stared at the jagged volcanic rocks that reminded him of Valmai, at the whirlwinds of black dust that were the only apparent form of life, at the small hills where the soil was deep enough for small shrubs to set root. The sky was of a blinding bright blue hue, with not even a single cloud to shelter from the unrelenting assault of the sun. Karabak teleported to the top of a nearby hill, motioning Torlo to follow him. The Le-Matoran trekked through the eroded basalt. When he caught up, he saw that the Makuta was pointing to the foothill. “This is the first part of your payment.” Torlo looked down, seeing a couple hundred Matoran, frozen in time, the living image of misery. Most of them had the typical morphology of a Matoran that, like himself, had endured Karazhni’s repairs. Their legs were abnormally short, their arms weak and their eyes and heartlight gave the pale shine of those who didn’t desire to live any longer. Most of them were badly injured and emaciated, just flesh on brittle bones, the result of years of slavery. But, most strikingly of all, was the fact that every single one of them was sporting a Krana. “As a sign of good will, I decided to transport the Matoran slaves here from the mines beneath the Bohrok Hive.” “Are they alive?” “In stasis. I do not want them to panic while I find an appropriate place to relocate them, and a stockpile of replacement Kanohi for them to wear. Although, to answer your question, I am not entirely sure that the state I rescued them could be called life.” “What about the second part?” Karabak let a ghost of a sardonic smile slip in his face. “You were not the only one I 'saved' from the abyss.” The Makuta materialized a red-armored corpse, which fell limp on the pyroclastic ground, and Torlo almost threw up when he recognized the blackened Calix. “Don the mask.” Torlo looked at Iolan’s corpse, horrified, then at the Makuta. “No not hesitate," sighed the Rode-wearing juggernaut. "He did not hesitate to betray you, or your people, Now he is dead and nothing but food for the Lava Hawks. Don the mask.” The Le-Matoran did not move, petrified, just staring at the corpse of his former companion. “Don the mask.” This time it was an order. Torlo slowly knelt down, the odor of decomposing meat making him feel sick. His right arm extended fearfully, touching the Calix. Then, a surge of energy pulsed through his circuitry, making him fall face-first on the rough ground. That single moment of tangible contact was all it had taken. The Matoran roared in pain as the joints in his body extended and reorganized. His organs shredded then re-knotted. Energy radiated from his fingertips, delivering an almost electrical, numbing wave of power through his body. It burned and healed all at once. The sensation was magnificent and horrific all at once. In mid-air, he felt the change occur. His anatomy altered and the impact of his landing was far greater than it should have been. New, stronger, heavier armor covering him and left an impression in the solid ground. Before he was able to understand the consequences of what had just happened, the truth struck him. He'd just grown six bio. Toa Power. It coursed through him as he picked himself up. His joints felt a thousand times stronger than they had in centuries. The now-Toa of Air admired his new armor, stunned by both the abrupt nature of his transformation and the feeling of such immense energy swirling around inside him. “You have to understand, Torlo, that from now on there will be no absolute truths, no good nor evil. You have to evolve beyond the bonds intrinsic to Matoran nature. Your black and white world will become dark grey.” “What do you mean?” “The third part of the payment.” The Makuta genuinely appeared to be downcast, which was almost as striking as Torlo's sudden ascension into the ranks of a Toa. The armor of Karabak's chest hissed then opened up mechanically. At first the green-armored Toa thought a Shadow Hand was going to rupture out of the cavity, but Karabak instead produced a spherical, gelatinous mass. He held it in his hand before Torlo’s eyes. Looking closer, the Toa of Air observed that the repulsive mass was a living creature, with sharp teeth and a pair of non-functional eyes. Its skin was of a greenish-blue translucent color, the outline of black colored organs inside visible. “What is this?” “For millennium the Matoran have been placed under the three virtues, a weight on your back that has hunched your kind. It has made you unable to perceive anything but the ground in front of you. Throughout you entire life, you have been unable to think for yourself beyond those preconceived virtues. You have always had to follow the rules, as it was said by the laws that make up the Matoran moral code. Unity, duty, destiny. The three chains that anchor the spirits of the Matoran in morality, that make them unable to look higher than the horizon. You have raved against Mata Nui, but never have been able understand the implications that it carries. You have never been truly free, but now I offer you that freedom. You will be the pioneer. Break from the shackles of the virtues. Metamorphose from a Mahi to Muaka. This, Torlo, is the overture to something greater.” As Torlo looked once more at the hungry creature, staring into its blind eyes, he knew that he was plunging into darkness.